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JAAES  JEFFREY  RpCHE 


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SONGS   AND   SATIRES 


SONGS   AND   SATIRES 


BY 


JAMES    JEFFREY    ROCHE 


"The  foam-flakes  that  dance  on  life's  shallows 
Are  wrung  from  life's  deep." 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR     AND     COMPANY 
1887 


Copyright,  1886, 

BY    TlCKNOR   AND   COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


JJrcss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


TO 


JOHN   BOYLE    O'REILLY. 


My  very  good  friend,  and  an  honorable  gentleman." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


913351 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PERSEPOLIS n 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 13 

FOR  THE  PEOPLE 14 

NETCHAIEFF 17 

HUBERT  THE  HUNTER 19 

EGYPT 24 

THE  WATER-LILY 26 

KING  MOB 27 

THE  CORPORAL'S  LETTER 30 

EDELWEISS 33 

SELF-RIGHTEOUS 34 

SERGEANT  MOLLY 36 

THE  GRAVE  OF  CAPTAIN  HALL 38 

CHARLES  DICKENS 40 

WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  HOME 42 

SPOTS  ON  THE  SUN 44 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEA 46 

BABYLON 48 

THE  FLAG 50 

MY  COMRADE 53 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ANDROMEDA .*    .    .    .  54 

PARTANT  POUR  LA  SYRIE 55 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  PEACE  . 57 

THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST 59 


THE  V-A-S-E 63 

A  SAILOR'S  YARN 65 

A  CONCORD  LOVE-SONG 69 

FROZEN  OUT 71 

ENIGMA 74 

IF 76 

A  TITLE  CLEAR : 77 

THE  PREADAMITE So 

To  T.  D 82 

THE  SPECTRE  MULETEER 84 

"  SCHOOL  KEEPS  " 88 

THE  DOLLAR  OF  OUR  FATHERS 90 

WHAT  THE  TELEGRAPH  SAID 92 

THE  FO'KS'LE 93 

"DON'T" 96 

THE  TWIN  RELIC 97 

MY  HATED  RIVAI 101 

AD  LYDIAM 102 

ON  RE-READING  TEL^MAQUE 103 


SONGS. 


SONGS. 


PERSEPOLIS. 


ELLOW  the  sand  on  the  palace  floor, 
Heavy  the  dust  on  column  and  wall ; 
Without,  the  jackal's  sycophant  call 
Echoes  the  lion's  angry  roar. 


Trespassers  we  on  a  king's  domain, 
Who  chafes  outside  in  his  royal  rage  : 
Patience,  your  Majesty,  while  a  page 

Of  history  we  peruse  again. 


Here  was  a  mighty  monarch's  throne  ; 
There  was  the  altar  men  raised  to  him, 
Where  the  bones  of  beasts  lie  white  and  grim 

How  the  servile  knees  have  worn  the  stone  ! 


1 2  SONGS. 


Here  is  his  statue,  but  all  defaced 
His  royal  features  beyond  recall ; 
And  prone  it  lies  in  the  dust  and  all, 

From  its  lcffy  pedestal  displaced. 

Time,  sweeping  by  with  his  noiseless  wings, 
Swept  off  the  date  and  the  mighty  name. 
Only  three  words  remain  to  fame  : 

Somebody  once  was  a  "  king  of  kings." 


THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD. 

HE  hands  of  the  King  are  soft  and  fair ; 

They  never  knew  labor's  stain. 
The  hands  of  the  Robber  redly  wear 
The  bloody  brand  of  Cain. 
But  the  hands  of  the  Man  are  hard  and  scarred 
With  the  scars  of  toil  and  pain. 

The  slaves  of  Pilate  have  washed  his  hands 

As  white  as  a  king's  may  be. 
Barabbas  with  wrists  unfettered  stands, 

For  the  world  has  made  him  free. 
But  thy  palms  toil-worn  by  nails  are  torn, 

O  Christ,  on  Calvary  ! 


FOR  THE    PEOPLE. 

|E  are  the  hewers  and  delvers  who  toil  for 

another's  gain,  — 
The  common  clods  and  the  rabble,  stunted 

of  brow  and  brain. 
What  do  we  want,  the  gleaners,  of  the  harvest  we 

have  reaped  ? 

What  do  we  want,  the  neuters,  of  the  honey  we 
have  heaped? 

We  want  the  drones  to  be  driven  away  from  our 

golden  hoard ; 
We  want  to  share  in  the  harvest ;  we  want  to  sit  at 

the  board ; 
We  want  what  sword  or  suffrage  has  never  yet  won 

for  man, — 
The  fruits  of  his  toil  God  promised  when  the  curse 

of  toil  began. 

Ye  have  tried  the  sword  and  sceptre,  the  cross  and 

the  sacred  word, 
In  all  the  years,  and  the  kingdom  is  not  yet  here  of 

the  Lord. 


FOR    THE  PEOPLE.  15 

Is  it  useless,  all  our  waiting  ?  Are  they  fruitless,  all 
our  prayers  ? 

Has  the  wheat,  while  men  were  sleeping,  been  over 
sowed  with  tares  ? 

What  gain  is  it  to  the  people  that  a  God  laid  down 
his  life, 

If,  twenty  centuries  after,  his  world  be  a  world  of 
strife  ? 

If  the  serried  ranks  be  facing  each  other  with  ruth 
less  eyes, 

And  steel  in  their  hands,  what  profits  a  Saviour's 
sacrifice  ? 

Ye  have  tried,  and  failed  to  rule  us  ;  in  vain  to  direct 

have  tried. 
Not  wholly  the  fault  of  the  ruler,  not  utterly  blind 

the  guide ; 
Mayhap  there  needs  not  a  ruler,  mayhap  we  can 

find  the  way. 
At  least  ye  have  ruled  to  ruin,  at  least  ye  have  led 

astray. 

What  matter  if  king  or  consul  or  president  holds  the 

rein, 
If  crime  and  poverty  ever  be  links  in  the  bondman's 

chain  ? 
What  careth  the  burden-bearer  that  Liberty  packed 

his  load, 
If  Hunger  presseth  behind  him  with  a  sharp  and 

ready  goad  ? 


i6 


SOWGS. 


There  's  a  serf  whose  chains  are  of  paper ;  there  's  a 

king  with  a  parchment  crown  ; 
There  are  robber  knights  and  brigands  in  factory, 

field,  and  town. 
But  the  vassal  pays  his  tribute  to  a  lord  of  wage  and 

rent ; 
And  the  baron's  toll  is  Shylock's,  with  a  flesh-and- 

blood  per  cent. 

The  seamstress  bends  to  her  labor  all  night  in  a 

narrow  room ; 
The  child,  defrauded  of  childhood,  tiptoes  all  day 

at  the  loom. 
The  soul  must  starve,  for  the  body  can  barely  on 

husks  be  fed ; 
And  the  loaded  dice  of  a  gambler  settle  the  price  of 

bread. 

Ye  have  shorn  and  bound  the  Samson  and  robbed 

him  of  learning's  light ; 
But  his  sluggish  brain  is  moving,  his  sinews  have 

all  their  might. 
Look  well  to  your  gates  of  Gaza,  your  privilege, 

pride,  and  caste  ! 
The  Giant  is  blind  and  thinking,  and  his  locks  are 

growing  fast. 


NETCHAIEFF. 

[Netchaieff,  a  Russian  Nihilist,  was  condemned  to  prison  for 
life.  Deprived  of  writing  materials,  he  allowed  his  finger-nail  to 
grow  until  he  fashioned  it  into  a  pen.  With  this  he  wrote,  in  his 
blood,  on  the  margins  of  a  book,  the  story  of  his  sufferings. 
Almost  his  last  entry  was  a  note  that  his  jailer  had  just  boarded  up 
the  solitary  pane  which  admitted  a  little  light  into  his  cell.  The 
"  letter  written  in  blood  "  was  smuggled  out  of  prison  and  pub 
lished,  and  Netchaieff  died  very  soon  after.  He  had  been  ten  years 
in  his  dungeon.] 

|ETCHAIEFF  is  dead,  your  Majesty. 
You  knew  him  not.    He  was  a  common  hind, 
Who  lived  ten  years  in  hell,  and  then  he 

died  — 

To  seek  another  hell,  as  we  must  think, 
Since  he  was  rebel  to  your  Majesty. 

Ten  years  !     The  time  is  long,  if  only  spent 
In  gilded  courts  and  palaces  like  thine. 
E'en  courtiers,  courtesans,  and  gilded  moths 
That  flutter  round  a  throne  find  weary  hours 
And  days  of  ennui.     But  Netchaieff 
Counted  the  minutes  through  ten  dragging  years 
Of  pain.     His  soul  was  God's  ;  his  body  man's, 
To  chain  and  maim  and  kill :  and  he  is  dead. 
Yet  something  left  he  that  you  cannot  kill,  — 
The  story  of  his  hell,  writ  in  his  blood  : 
2 


1 8  SONGS. 


Plebeian  blood,  base,  ruddy,  yet  in  hue 

And  substance  just  such  blood  as  once  we  saw 

Baptizing  the  Ekatrinofsky  road  : 

And  that  blood  was  your  sainted  sire's,  the  same 

That  fills  your  veins,  and  would  your  face  suffuse 

Did  ever  tyrant  know  the  way  to  blush. 

The  tale  ?    But  to  what  end  repeat 
A  thrice-told  tale  ?     Netchaieff  is  dead. 
Ten  thousand  others  live.     Go  view  their  lives  : 
See  the  wan  captive  in  his  narrow  cell ; 
Mark  the  shrunk  frame  and  shoulders  bowed  and 

bent, 

The  thin  hand  trembling,  shading  blinded  eyes 
From  unaccustomed  light ;  the  fettered  limbs, 
The  shuffling  tread,  and  furtive  look  and  start. 
Bid  the  dank  walls  give  up  the  treasured  groans 
The  proud  lips  still  withheld  from  mortal  ear ; 
Ask  of  the  slimy  stones  what  they  have  seen, 
And  shrank  to  see,  polluted  with  the  blood 
Of  martyred  innocence,  —  youth  linked  to  age, 
And  both  to  death  ;  the  matron  and  the  maid 
Prey  to  the  slaver's  lust  and  driver's  whip ; 
All  gladly  welcoming  the  silent  cell 
And  vermin's  company,  less  vile  than  man's. 

See  these  and  these  in  twice  a  score  of  hells, 
And  faintly  guess  what  horrors  lie  behind 
That  you  can  never  see  ;  and  you  shall  guess 
Why  we  rejoice  that  Netchaieff  is  dead  : 
Kings  cannot  harm  the  dead. 


HUBERT  THE   HUNTER. 

ORD   HUBERT  lived,  long  years  ago, 

In  good  King  Pepin's  reign, 
The  lightest  heart  and  heaviest  hand 
In  all  broad  Aquitain. 

He  loved  his  home,  he  loved  his  king, 

He  loved  a  winsome  face, 
He  loved  right  well  his  noble  self; 

But  better  loved  the  chase. 

The  foremost  in  the  knightly  joust, 

The  first  in  hunting  train  ; 
The  bravest  brand  in  all  the  land 

Was  crossed  with  his  in  vain. 

Small  favorites  with  Hubert  bold 
Were  bookish  clerk  and  priest ; 

And  sore  he  chafed  when  sport  was  barred 
By  frequent  fast  and  feast. 

'T  was  in  the  blessed  Lenten  time, 

The  holiest  week  of  all ; 
The  silence  of  the  Day  of  Woe 

Fell  like  a  funeral  pall. 


2O  SONGS. 


No  joy-bell  rang,  no  light  was  there, 
Nor  sight  or  sound  of  mirth  ; 

The  sadness  of  the  Sacrifice 
Was  on  the  molirning  earth. 

By  holy  men  in  penance  garb 
The  shrouded  cross  was  borne, 

When  o'er  the  hill  rang  loud  and  shrill 
A  merry  bugle-horn. 

The  baying  of  a  hound  was  heard 

Along  the  distant  road  ; 
With  bow  and  spear  and  hunting  gear 

Lord  Hubert  reckless  strode. 


With  mock  obeisance  spake  the  knight 
"  Good  father,  ban  me  not ; 

No  saint  nor  Pharisee  am  I, 
But  sinful  man,  God  wot. 

"  But  deeds  of  grace  may  wash  out  sin — 

I  pledge  a  hunter's  word, 
The  fattest  buck  in  gloomy  Hartz 
This  night  shall  grace  thy  board." 

Then  answered  mild  the  holy  man  : 
"  Forbear  the  wanton  crime 

Of  him  who  sheddeth  sinless  blood 
In  holy  Easter  time. 


HUBERT  THE  HUNTER.  21 

f  An  erring  servant  of  the  Lord 
Nor  ban  nor  curse  may  say, 
But  may  the  gentle  Christ  forgive 
Thy  foul  affront,  I  pray." 

\ 
The  town  is  passed  ;  the  forest  deep 

Is  still  and  cold  and  gray ; 
So  silent,  you  might  deem  the  brutes 
Revered  the  sacred  day. 

Now  deeper,  deeper  grows  the  wood, 

And  darker  grows  the  gloom  ; 
And  deathly  chills  assault  the  heart, 

Like  breezes  from  the  tomb. 

The  broken  twig  hangs  motionless, 

The  budding  leaf  is  still ; 
The  sunless  winter  of  the  North 

Is  not  more  dark  and  chill. 

Lord  Hubert  bore  the  stoutest  heart 

In  all  broad  Aquitain, 
Yet,  but  for  very  shame,  had  wished 

Him  fairly  home  again. 

:  Good  faith  !  "  he  cried,  "  the  holy  man 

Shall  venison  lack  to-day ;  " 
When  lo  !  before  his  startled  gaze 

A  quarry  stood  at  bay. 


22  SO.VGS. 


Stout  Hubert  drew  a  deadly  shaft,  — 
His  aim  was  true  and  keen ; 

And  fairer  mark  a  hunter's  skill 
Had  seldom  found,  I  ween. 

He  drew  the  arrow  to  the  head,  — 
His  aim  was  keen  and  true  ; 

Then  sudden  fell  the  bow  and  shaft, 
And  fell  stout  Hubert  too. 

For  mid  the  branching  antlers  there, 

Upon  a  forehead  white, 
The  symbol  of  the  gentle  Christ 

Was  marked  in  dazzling  light. 

At  holy  cross  on  beastly  front 
The  huntsman  pressed  the  sod, 

And  heard,  like  him  of  Israel, 
The  accents  of  a  God. 


The  joy-bells  rang  on  Easter  morn  ; 

The  good  folk  held  the  feast, 
And  watched  the  conscious  rising  sun 

Dance  gladly  in  the  East. 

Lord  Hubert  knelt  in  humbled  heart, 
And  prayed  for  grace  to  teach 

The  lesson  taught  by  Heaven  to  him 
Through  brute's  inspired  speech  : 


HUBERT  THE  HUNTER.  23; 

That  gentle  sport  in  season  meet 

Awakes  not  Heaven's  wrath  ; 
But  woe  the  wretch  for  sinless  life 

Who  no  compassion  hath ; 

That  bird  and  beast  are  in  His  care, 

Whose  lives  are  but  a  span, 
And  he  that  wastes  offendeth  God, 

Who  gave  the  breath  to  man. 

And  honest  sportsmen  evermore 

Are  merciful  indeed ; 
For  good  Saint  Hubert  blesseth  him 

Who  heeds  his  gentle  creed. 


EGYPT. 

SHORT  arc  bounds  the  limit  of  our  sight ; 
With  level  gaze  we  scan  the  earthly  floor, 
And  all  our  skill  shows  not  an  inch  beyond 

The  vista  of  our  seventy  inches  height. 

The  bounded  deep  to  us  is  never  more 

Than  the  horizon  of  a  narrow  pond. 

The  future  lies  beyond  the  rounded  rim  ; 

The  present  beats  before  our  puny  feet ; 

The  past  was  washed  out  on  the  morning  tide  ;  — 

Past,  Present,  Future  are  as  one  to  Him 

Who  bids  the  wave  advance,  be  still,  retreat, 

And  mercifully  doth  the  future  hide. 

The  sad-eyed  Sphinx  has  seen  the  cycles  roll, 

The  pyramids  arise,  and  nations  fall, 

The  mighty  deeds  of  kings  inscribed  with  pain 

Lost  in  the  glory  of  a  keyless  scroll, 

Rubbed  by  the  very  dust  from  sculptured  wall  — 

Graving  and  wall  to  dust  resolved  again. 


EGYPT. 


Deep  was  thy  guilt,  O  Egypt,  when  the  Lord 
In  anger  smote  thee  with  a  heavy  hand, 
Thy  pleasant  waters  turned  to  blood,  and  sent 
O'er  all  thy  land  the  crawling  things  abhorred, 
Darkened  thy  skies  with  winged  venom,  and 
In  night  and  blood  the  crowning  punishment. 

Thou  hast  beheld  the  mighty  come  and  go  ; 
Greek,  Roman,  Moslem,  in  successive  tide 
Sweep  o'er  thee,  triumph,  shudder,  and  depart,  — 
Sad  eldest-born  of  earth  and  heir  of  woe, 
Prometheus  of  nations,  death-denied, 
The  vultures  ever  at  thy  living  heart. 

What  is  thy  crime,  O  Egypt,  now,  that  God 
Such  retribution  on  thy  head  should  send, 
Than  His  ten  plagues  tenfold  more  fraught  with  woe  ? 
Ask  of  the  stony  Sphinx  whose  vision  broad 
Has  seen  the  stubborn  pride  of  Pharaoh  bend, 
And  Gordon's  crumble  as  the  sands  below. 


THE   WATER-LILY. 

N  the  slimy  bed  of  a  sluggish  mere 
Its  root  had  humble  birth, 
And  the  slender  stem  that  upward  grew 
Was  coarse  of  fibre  and  dull  of  hue, 
With  nought  of  grace  or  worth. 

The  gelid  fish  that  floated  near 

Saw  only  the  vulgar  stem. 
The  clumsy  turtle  paddling  by, 
The  water  snake  with  his  lidless  eye,  — 

It  was  only  a  weed  to  them. 

But  the  butterfly  and  the  honey-bee, 

The  sun  and  sky  and  air, 
They  marked  its  heart  of  virgin  gold 
In  the  satin  leaves  of  spotless  fold, 

And  its  odor  rich  and  rare. 

So  the  fragrant  soul  in  its  purity, 

To  sordid  life  tied  down, 
May  bloom  to  Heaven,  and  no  man  know, 
Seeing  the  coarse  vile  stem  below, 

How  God  hath  seen  the  crown. 


KING   MOB. 

OT  in  the  down-trod,  slavish  East, 
Where  king  is  god,  and  subject  beast, 
Where  thousands  starve  that  one  may  feast 
On  the  plenty  wrung  from  slavery  ; 
Not  where  the  Czar  o'er  millions  rules, 
Or  Sultan  grinds  time-serving  fools, 
Or  Chinese  despot  reigns  with  tools 
Of  priest-craft,  fraud,  and  knavery,  — 

Not  there  the  foulest  despots  reign ; 
No  tyrant's  serf  e'er  forged  his  chain, 
Or  freedom  vilely  sold  for  gain ; 

Such  shame  is  not  base-born. 
To  us  reserved  the  double  shame, 
Free-born  to  stain  fair  Freedom's  fame, 
Our  fetters  gilding  with  her  name, 

Herself  our  worthless  scorn. 

Our  monarch  claims  no  right  divine  ; 
No  royal  blood,  no  noble  line, 
Nor  bold  usurper's  deeds  define 
His  patent  right  of  ruling. 


28  SONGS. 


By  vulgar  fraud,  transparent  guile, 
Ill-gotten  wealth,  corruption  vile, 
Nor  least  by  Worth's  indiffrence,  while 
Disdaining  ballot-schooling. 

By  such,  a  tyrant  mean  and  base, 
Coward  as  all  of  tyrant  race, 
Freedom's  shame  and  Man's  disgrace, 

Lives  Mob,  who  rules  the  City ; 
Where  triumphs  Fraud,  as  Justice  sleeps, 
And  Vice  her  shameless  revels  keeps, 
And  Death  from  Vice  his  harvest  reaps, 

Unchecked  of  ill-timed  pity. 

Who,  watching  manhood's  progress,  spies, 
Look  though  he  may  with  partial  eyes, 
Foul  License  wear  fair  Freedom's  guise, 

And  timid  Virtue  cower, 
As  shrinks  the  serf  from  lash's  sting, 
In  dread  of  Mob,  the  unclean  thing  — 
Slave,  self-elected,  of  the  Ring, 

And  "manhood  suffrage  "  power,— 

Who,  seeing  this,  as  all  men  see 
The  rotten  fruit  of  freedom's  tree, 
Yet  keeps  his  faith  in  manhood,  he 

With  boundless  faith  is  gifted. 
And  he  is  right !     For  manhood  still, 
Though  stained  with  wrong  and  tutored  ill, 
Its  noble  mission  must  fulfil, 

To  higher  things  uplifted. 


KING  MOB.  29 


As  shrinks  the  night  when  morning  breaks, 
As  thief  in  sight  of  gallows  quakes, 
So  trembles  Guilt  when  Justice  wakes  ; 

So  Mob  dethroned  will  falter, 
When  o'er  Corruption's  teeming  field 
Justice  and  Right  the  sickle  wield, 
To  reap  the  sheaves  of  rankest  yield 

And  bind  them  with  a  halter. 


THE   CORPORAL'S   LETTER. 

JHEN  the  sword  is  sheathed  and  the  cannon 

lies 

Dumb  and  still  on  the  parapet, 
For  the  spider  to  weave  his  silken  net 
And  the  doves  to  nest  in  its  silent  mouth ; 
When  the  manly  trade  declines  and  dies, 
And  hearts  shrink  up  in  ignoble  drouth, 
When  pitiful  peace  reigns  everywhere, 
What  is  left  for  old  Corporal  Pierre  ? 

Nought  remains  for  an  honest  wight, 

But  to  write  for  bread,  as  the  poets  do, 

Beggarly  scrawls  for  paltry  sous. 

The  billet-doux  and  the  angry  dun 

To  the  writing-machine  are  all  as  one. 

What  matter  the  word  or  sentiment  ? 

If  the  fee  be  paid  he  is  well  content. 

To  have  heart  in  one's  trade,  ah  !  one  must  fight. 

"  M'sieu,  if  you  please."  and  a  timid  hand 

Is  laid  on  the  soldier's  threadbare  sleeve. 

Pierre  was  bearish  that  day,  I  grieve 

To  say,  and  his  speech  was  curt, 

As  will  happen  when  want  or  old  wounds  hurt  — 


THE   CORPORAL'S  LETTER.  31 

"  I  wish  you  to  write  a  letter,  please." 

"  All  right.     Ten  sous."     But  the  little  boy 

Has  turned  away.     "  Morbleu  !    Well,  then, 

You  have  n't  the  money  ?    You  think  that  pen 

And  ink  and  paper  grow  on  trees  ? 

Halt !     Can't  a  soldier  his  joke  enjoy 

But  you  must  flare  up  ?     I  understand. 

"  A  begging  letter,  of  course.     And  who 

Shall  be  favored  to-day  ?     Dictate  —  '  M'sieu  ' "  — 

"Pardon.     'T is  not 'M'sieu.'     Madame, 

La  Sainte  Vierge."     The  writer  stopped, 

And  the  pen  from  his  trembling  fingers  dropped  ; 

The  desk  was  shut  with  an  angry  slam. 

"  Sapristi  !     You  little  rascal,  you 

Would  jest  with  the  Holy  Virgin  too?  " 

But  the  child  was  weeping,  and  old  Pierre 
Suppressed  his  wrath  and  indulged  a  stare. 
"  My  mother,  M'sieu,  she  sleeps  so  long, 
These  two  whole  days,  and  the  room  is  cold. 
And  she  will  not  awake.     It  is  very  wrong, 
I  know,  for  a  boy  to  be  afraid 
When  a  boy  is  as  many  as  five  years  old. 
But  I  was  so  hungry,  and  when  I  prayed 
And  the  Virgin  did  not  come,  I  thought 
Perhaps  if  I  send  her  a  letter,  why  —  " 

He  paused,  but  old  Pierre  said  nought. 
There  was  something  new  in  the  old  man's  throat, 
And  something  strange  in  the  old  man's  eye  ; 
At  length  he  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote. 


32  SONGS. 


Long  it  took  him  to  write  and  fold 

And  seal  with  a  hand  that  was  far  from  bold ; 

Then  :  "  Courage,  small  comrade,  wait  and  see  ; 

Your  letter  is  mailed,  and  presently 

An  answer  will  come,  perhaps  to  me. 

I  will  open  my  desk.     Behold,  't  is  there  ! 
'From  Heaven,'  it  says,  <a  M'sieu  Pierre.' 
You  do  not  read?     N'importe.     /do. 
T  is  a  letter  from  Heaven,  and  all  about  you, 
And,  what  ?     '  Mamma  is  in  Heaven,  too. 
And  her  little  boy  must  be  brave  and  good 
And  live  with  Pierre.'     That 's  understood. 
While  Pierre  has  a  crust  or  sou  to  spare, 
There  's  enough  for  him  and  thee,  mon  cher." 

Do  you  think  that  letter  came  from  above 

Freighted  with  God's  and  a  mother's  love? 

The  child  at  least  believed  it  true, 

So,  at  the  last,  Pierre  did  too, 

When  the  heavenly  mail  came  once  again, 

To  a  grim  old  man  on  a  bed  of  pain, 

Whose  dying  eyes  alone  could  see, 

And  read  the  missive  joyfully. 

He  knew  the  Hand,  and  proudly  smiled, 

For  it  was  as  the  hand  of  a  little  child. 


EDELWEISS. 

[AIR  and  far  is  the  mountain  crest, 

In  the  summer  skies  a-glovving  ; 
Safe  and  sweet  is  the  hither  side, 
Where  the  bees  and  the  sweet-breathed  kine  abide, 

And  the  soft  south  wind  is  blowing. 
Maiden  true,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
I  look  to  the  heights  untrod,  divine, 
Where  the  perfect  flower  is  growing. 

Did  I  lose  the  good  when  I  sought  the  best  ? 

Loving  you  past  all  measure, 
Could  I  choose  but  say,  My  love,  I  love  ? 
Be  it  mine  to  say,  be  it  yours  to  prove 

Me  worthy  of  love's  dear  treasure  — 
For  I  have  climbed  the  heights  divine, 
Hoping  and  fearing,  to  wait  the  sign 

Of  your  love  or  your  displeasure. 


SELF-RIGHTEOUS. 

'HAMMED  prayed,  when  pious  Hassan  fell 
In  battle  vanquished  by  the  infidel, 
That  God  might  stay  the  hand  of  Azrael 


The  Pitiless,  who  right  nor  mercy  knew  : 

"  O  Allah  !    Is  it  well  that  we,  so  few 

And  weak,  should  fail,  who  have  thy  work  to  do  ? 


"  The  world  and  Eblis  triumph  over  Thine, 
While  weaker  grow  our  dying  hopes,  and  mine 
Are  all  but  dead.     O  Allah  !     Grant  a  sign  !  " 

Then  straightway  was  unsmiling  Azrael  sent, 
And  stood  before  the  weary  Prophet's  tent : 
"  Thy  prayer  is  granted  —  for  thy  punishment. 

"  O'er  Islam's  hosts  the  keys  of  life  are  thine  — 
For  lo  !  thy  wisdom  doth  excel  Divine  — 
Watch  that  thy  hand  be  merciful  as  mine." 

When  next  they  met  the  foeman  on  the  field 

The  sword  of  Azrael  was  Islam's  shield, 

And  Death  rejoiced  to  reap  a  bounteous  yield. 


SELF-RIGHTEOUS.  35 

Great  was  the  joy  at  first :  with  prayer  and  fast 
And  humble  thanks  to  Allah's  mercy,  passed 
Each  day  of  victory ;  but  at  the  last, 

Grown  turbulent  and  proud  with  quick-won  power 

And  evil  lusts,  its  ever  fatal  dower, 

The  poison  weeds  of  sin  began  to  flower ; 

And  when  the  Prophet  would  have  stemmed  the  tide 

Of  fatal  luxury,  they  him  defied  : 

"  Allah  is  with  us  !     Let  the  dotard  chide." 

Blaspheming  some  more  impiously  said  : 
"  With  us  or  not,  we  neither  know  nor  dread 
This  God  disarmed.     Azrael  is  dead  !  " 

Once  more  with  troubled  soul  Mohammed  prayed 
That  God  might  send  another  sign  to  aid. 
The  answer  came,  —  with  it  a  Moslem  blade, 

Clutched  in  the  hand  of  one  he  loved  too  well, 
A  parricide  in  heart  and  child  of  hell ; 
But  Azrael  smote  him,  and  the  traitor  fell. 

Mohammed  then  his  impious  wish  deplored, 
And  Allah  pitying  gave  back  his  sword 
To  Azrael,  who  wisely  served  his  Lord. 


SERGEANT   MOLLY. 

JHE  snows  were  melted  from  Valley  Forge ; 
The    blood  was    drunk    by   the    sodden 

clay; 

And,  counting  the  score  against  King  George, 
They  sharpened  their  swords  for  Monmouth  day. 

But  the  devil  may  take  the  caitiff  Lee  ! 

In  the  front  of  battle  his  courage  quailed, 
And  the  lions  leaping  to  victory 

Fell  back  when  their  leader's  hare-heart  failed. 

Till  the  Chieftain  came  with  his  face  aflame, 

And  an  angry  hand  on  a  ready  hilt, 
Halting  the  mob  with  a  taunt  of  shame, 

And  a  hot,  fierce  curse  on  the  traitor's  guilt. 

So  we  see  him  now  in  his  godlike  wrath, 

Firing  the  souls  of  meaner  men, 
Standing  athwart  the  coward's  path, 

And  driving  the  victor  back  again. 

And  once  again  when,  the  battle  won, 

And  the  beaten  foe  in  ignoble  flight, 
He  calls  for  the  soldier  who  served  the  gun 

In  Wayne's  brigade  on  the  bloody  right. 


SERGEANT  MOLLY.  37 

How  the  soldiers  cheer,  in  their  comrade  pride, 
As  a  woman  steps  from  the  cannoneers, 

And  her  mantling  blushes  fail  to  hide 
The  smoke  of  battle  and  stain  of  tears. 

She  is  only  a  soldier's  Irish  wife  ; 

But  yesterday,  when  the  fight  went  hard, 
The  hot  heart's  blood  of  her  soldier's  life 

Made  a  pool  by  his  gun  on  Monmouth  sward. 

And  the  captain  turned  away  his  head,  — 
"  Take  out  of  the  battle  the  idle  gun  ; 

There 's  no  one  to  serve  it  now,"  he  said  : 

But  a  white-faced  woman  cried,  "  Yes,  there 's 
one." 

And  all  day  long,  through  the  fire  and  smoke, 
And  the  din  of  battle  and  bullets'  hum, 

The  battery's  thunderous  voice  outspoke, 
And  Pitcher's  cannon  was  never  dumb. 

Powder-stained  is  the  brown  hand  yet, 

As  the  Chieftain  holds  it  and  speaks  his  thanks ; 

And  "Sergeant  Molly,"  by  his  brevet, 
Goes  proudly  back  to  the  cheering  ranks. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  CAPTAIN  HALL. 


HE  day  was  night,  and  the  night  was  day, 

And  the  earth  was  cold  and  drear ; 
An  iceberg  nigh  loomed  ghostly  high 
O'er  a  funeral  train  and  bier. 


The  starry  flag  hung  half-mast  high, 

While  the  kindly  stars  above 
In  the  night-in-day  looked  down  alway 

With  a  distant,  helpless  love. 

God's  sun  was  dead  so  long  ago 

We  lived  in  endless  night, 
But  the  sad  far  stars  gazed  through  the  bars 

Of  the  weird  Boreal  light. 

The  Polar  blast  swept  o'er  a  plain 

As  smooth  as  the  waveless  sea, 
Like  a  voiceless  breath  from  the  lips  of  Death, 

So  fiercely,  silently. 

We  scooped  his  grave  in  the  iron  earth 

Of  the  ever  frozen  zone ; 
And  the  strong  man  lay  with  his  kindred  clay, 

As  cold  and  dead  and  lone. 


THE   GRAVE  OF  CAPTAIN  HALL.         39 

No  choir  may  sing  his  requiem, 

No  shaft  may  mark  his  tomb  ; 
Go  place  his  name  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

Where  the  brave  find  ever  room. 

Though  flowers  deck  not  the  distant  grave, 

Nor  tears  bedew  its  turf, 
We  hear  his  dirge  in  the  solemn  surge 

Of  the  ever  sounding  surf. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 

EAR  the  voice  of  Christmas  Present  — 
Heavenly  speech  in  mortal  tongue  - 
Childhood's  lips  translating  paeans 
By  its  fellow-cherubs  sung. 


He  that  read  aright  the  language 
Held  communion  with  Above, 

Standing  near  to  God  and  childhood 
In  democracy  of  love  ; 

Winning  weary  hearts  to  gladness, 

From  the  world's  harsh  pain  and  care  ; 

Bearing  hope  and  joy  to  sadness ; 
Teaching  patience  to  despair. 

Breathe  his  name  in  nought  of  sorrow, 
Mourn  him  not  as  of  the  dead, 

Though  the  gentle  master's  spirit 
From  a  loving  world  hath  fled. 

Earth  can  claim  but  earthly  ashes, 

Not  the  spirit  Heaven  gave ; 
For  the  heart,  a  world  embracing, 

All  too  narrow  is  the  grave. 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  41 

If  in  battling  wrong  to  conquer, 

Ever  on  the  weaker  side,  — 
If  to  dwell  in  hearts  unnumbered, 

Be  to  live,  —  he  hath  not  died. 

Pure  apostle  of  the  mission 

Of  the  '•'  Peace  on  earth  to  men ;  " 

Rare  expounder  of  Christ-loving 
Was  his  love-compelling  pen. 

In  the  light  of  Christmas  Present 

Be  the  master's  mission  seen ; 
And  for  that  he  loved  his  brother 

God  will  "  keep  his  memory  green." 


WHEN   MY  SHIP   COMES   HOME. 

YOUNG  man  stood  by  the  summer  sea, 

In  the  flush  of  the  rising  sun, 
And  the  wavelets  gleamed  as  the  light  down 

streamed, 
Gilding  them  one  by  one. 

Over  the  waves  with  the  tips  of  gold, 

At  the  sun  and  the  shining  sea, 
Like  an  eagle,  he  gazed,  with  eye  undazed, 

And  a  soul  all  young  and  free. 

"  Youth  and  the  world  are  mine  !  "  he  cried  ; 

"  Honor  and  hope  and  love. 
Calm  as  the  sea  is  my  life  to  me, 

And  bright  as  the  skies  above. 

"  And  the  blue-eyed  lass  with  the  golden  hair, 

Who  has  given  her  heart  to  me,  - 
Ah  !  she  will  be  mine  with  her  love  divine, 

When  my  ship  comes  over  the  sea." 


WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  HOME.          43 

An  old  man  stood  on  a  barren  beach, 

Shading  his  haggard  eyes 
With  a  hand  that  shook,  while  his  weary  look 

Went  from  earth  to  sea  and  skies. 

And  never  a  one  to  pity  him 

Of  all  the  friends  of  his  youth ; 
For  Hope  was  dead,  and  there  lived  instead 

The  sinister  lesson,  Truth. 

And  the  gold-haired  lass  that  had  looked  on  him 

With  her  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
Had  gone,  with  his  fame  and  riches  and  name, 

As  blue-eyed  goddesses  do. 

Haggard  and  broken  his  shadow  fell, 

Clouding  the  laughing  foam  ; 
Wrecked  in  the  strife  and  storm  of  life, 

His  ship  had  never  come  home. 


SPOTS  ON  THE  SUN. 

A   FABLE. 

[N  a  far  fair  land,  in  the  early  days, 

Ere  a  purer  faith  was  born, 
Men  simple-souled  and  of  artless  ways 
Knelt  down  to  the  sun,  and  their  song  of  praise 
Was  lifted  to  him  each  morn. 

For  they  saw,  as  the  days  did  come  and  go, 

That  he  loved  the  sons  of  men,  — 
That  for  them  he  had  taught  the  corn  to  grow, 
The  fruits  to  ripen,  and  flowers  to  blow, 

And  Earth  to  conceive  again. 

But  a  wise  man  came,  with  his  soulless  creed, 

Narrow  and  hard  and  cold,  — 

He  had  weighed  their  sun,  and  measured  his  speed, 
And  reckoned  his  years  to  a  day,  indeed,  — 

And  he  scoffed  at  the  faith  of  old. 

He  made  him  a  lens  of  the  crystal  glass, 

And  steadily  bent  his  gaze. 
"  There  are  spots  on  the  sun,"  he  cried.     "  Alas 
For  your  god  !  he  is  all  one  murky  mass. 

Where  now  be  his  glorious  rays  ?  " 


SPOTS  ON  THE  SUN.  45 

But  the -simple  people  made  answer  none  : 

They  saw  in  the  wise  man's  eyes 
That  the  centred  rays  of  the  angry  sun 
Had  smitten  him  blind ;  and  they  knew  no  one 

Is  so  simple  as  the  wise. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   SEA. 

ROM  the  noisome  garrets  and  cellars, 

From  the  kennels  and  dens  of  shame, 
The  city's  wild  cavern-dwellers 
One  day  into  sunlight  came  ; 
For  a  magic  singer  had  found  him 

A  song  with  a  new  refrain, 
And  the  outcasts  thronged  around  him 
And  took  up  the  mighty  strain. — 
Aux  armes,  aux  armes,  Citoycns  ! 
Formez,  formez  vos  bataillons  / 
Marchons,  marchons,  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve 
nos  sillons! 


He  had  lain  on  the  rocky  shingle 

By  the  rim  of  the  sounding  sea, 
Where  the  warring  voices  mingle 

And  melt  into  harmony ; 
And  he  listed  the  note  that  lingers 

In  eternal  monotone, 
When  the  sea  with  his  strong  white  fingers 

Beats  on  the  keys  of  stone. 


THE  SONG   OF  THE  SEA.  47 

Breakers  twain,  and  another, 

And  the  third  is  a  vengeful  cry ; 
Ever  the  same,  nor  other 

Shall  be  till  the  seas  be  dry : 
The  first  bids  the  slave  awaken ; 

The  next  is  a  call  to  fight ; 
The  thrones  at  the  third  are  shaken, 

And  the  People  is  king  by  right. 

The  gilded  court's  shrill  babble 

Was  stilled  when  the  dumb  ones  spoke, 
And  the  grand,  sad,  patient  rabble 

From  its  sleeping  ages  woke. 
Then  the  wrongs  that  were  built  of  granite 

Were  weak  as  a  lie  laid  bare  ; 
No  room  for  wrong  on  the  planet 

When  Oppression  begets  Despair. 

Ah  !  new  bastiles  have  been  builded, 

And  tyranny  grows  again, 
But  the  freedom-song  that  thrilled  it 
Dies  not  from  the  heart  of  men ; 
For  prisons  will  crumble  under 

The  spell  of  a  magic  word, 
And  fetters  shall  fall  asunder 

When  the  Song  of  the  Sea  is  heard.  — 
Aux  armes,  anx  armes,  Citoyens  ! 
Formez,  formez  vos  bataillons  ! 
Marc/ions,  marchons,  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve 
nos  sillons  ! 


BABYLON. 

R  robes  are  of  purple  and  scarlet, 

And  the  kings  have  bent  their  knees 
To  the  gemmed  and  jewelled  harlot 
Who  sitteth  on  many  seas. 

They  have  drunk  the  abominations 

Of  her  golden  cup  of  shame  ; 
She  has  drugged  and  debauched  the  nations 

With  the  mystery  of  her  name. 

Her  merchants  have  gathered  riches 
By  the  power  of  her  wantonness, 

And  her  usurers  are  as  leeches 
On  the  world's  supreme  distress. 

She  has  scoured  the  seas  as  a  spoiler ; 

Her  mart  is  a  robbers'  den, 
With  the  wrested  toll  of  the  toiler, 

And  the  mortgaged  souls  of  men. 

Her  crimson  flag  is  flying, 

Where  the  East  and  the  West  are  one  ; 
Her  drums  while  the  day  is  dying 

Salute  the  rising  sun. 


BABYLON, 


49 


She  has  scourged  the  weak  and  the  lowly 
And  the  just  with  an  iron  rod ; 

She  is  drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  holy,  — 
She  shall  drink  of  the  wrath  of  God  ! 


THE   FLAG. 

AN   INCIDENT   OF   STRAIN'S   EXPEDITION. 

NEVER  have  got  the  bearings  quite, 
Though  I  Ve  followed  the  course  for  many 

a  year, 
If  he  was  crazy,  clean  outright, 

Or  only  what  you  might  say  was  "  queer." 

He  was  just  a  simple  sailor  man. 

I  mind  it  as  well  as  yisterday, 
When  we  messed  aboard  of  the  old  "  Cyane." 

Lord  !  how  the  time  does  slip  away  ! 
That  was  five  and  thirty  year  ago, 

When  ships  was  ships  and  men  was  men, 
And  sailors  was  n't  afraid  to  stow 

Themselves  on  a  Yankee  vessel  then. 
He  was  only  a  sort  of  bosun's  mate, 

But  every  inch  of  him  taut  and  trim ; 
Stars  and  anchors  and  togs  of  state 

Tailors  don't  build  for  the  like  of  him. 
He  flew  a  no-account  sort  of  name, 

A  reg'lar  fo'cas'le  "  Jim  "  or  "Jack," 


THE  FLAG.  51 


With  a  plain  "  McGinnis  "  abaft  the  same, 

Giner'ly  reefed  to  simple  "  Mack." 
Mack,  we  allowed,  was  sorter  queer,  — 

Ballast  or  compass  was  n't  right. 
Till  he  licked  four  Juicers  one  day,  a  fear 

Prevailed  that  he  had  n't  lamed  to  fight. 
But  I  reckon  the  Captain  knowed  his  man, 

When  he  put  the  flag  in  his  hand  the  day 
That  we  went  ashore  from  the  old  "  Cyane," 

On  a  madman's  cruise  for  Darien  Bay. 

Forty  days  in  the  wilderness 

We  toiled  and  suffered  and  starved  with  Strain, 
Losing  the  number  of  many  a  mess 

In  the  Devil's  swamps  of  the  Spanish  Main. 
All  of  us  starved,  and  many  died. 

One  laid  down,  in  his  dull  despair ; 
His  stronger  messmate  went  to  his  side  — 

We  left  them  both  in  the  jungle  there. 
It  was  hard  to  part  with  shipmates  so ; 

But  standing  by  would  have  done  no  good. 
We  heard  them  moaning  all  day,  so  slow 

We  dragged  along  through  the  weary  wood. 
McGinnis,  he  suffered  the  worst  of  all ; 

Not  that  he  ever  piped  his  eye 
Or  would  n't  have  answered  to  the  call 

If  they'd  sounded  it  for  "  All  hands  to  die." 
I  guess  't  would  have  sounded  for  him  before, 

But  the  grit  inside  of  him  kept  him  strong, 
Till  we  met  relief  on  the  river  shore  ; 

And  we  all  broke  down  when  it  came  along. 


52  SOJVGS. 


All  but  McGinnis.     Gaunt  and  tall, 

Touching  his  hat,  and  standing  square  : 
"  Captain,  the  Flag."  .  .  .  And  that  was  all ; 

He  just  keeled  over  and  foundered  there. 
" The  Flag?"     We  thought  he  had  lost  his  head 

It  might  n't  be  much  to  lose  at  best  — 
Till  we  came,  by-and-by,  to  dig  his  bed, 

And  we  found  it  folded  around  his  breast. 
He  laid  so  calm  and  smiling  there, 

With  the  flag  wrapped  tight  around  his  heart ; 
Maybe  he  saw  his  course  all  fair, 

Only  —  we  could  n't  read  the  chart. 


MY  COMRADE. 

[HE  love  of  man  and  woman  is  as  fire, 
To  warm,  to  light,  but  surely  to  consume 
And  self-consuming  die.     There  is  no  room 
For  constancy  and  passionate  desire. 
We  stand  at  last  beside  a  wasted  pyre, 
Touch  its  dead  embers,  groping  in  the  gloom ; 
And  where  an  altar  stood,  erect  a  tomb, 
And  sing  a  requiem  to  a  broken  lyre. 
But  comrade-love  is  as  a  welding  blast 
Of  candid  flame  and  ardent  temperature  : 
Glowing  most  fervent,  it  doth  bind  more  fast ; 
And  melting  both,  but  makes  the  union  sure. 
The  dross  alone  is  burnt  —  till  at  the  last 
The  steel,  if  cold,  is  one,  and  strong  and  pure. 


ANDROMEDA. 

|HEY  chained  her  fair  young  body  to  the 

cold  and  cruel  stone  ; 
The  beast    begot    of   sea  and  slime  had 

marked  her  for  his  own ; 
The  callous  world  beheld  the  wrong,  and  left  her 

there  alone. 

Base  caitiffs  who   belied   her,  false   kinsmen  who 
denied  her, 

Ye  left  her  there  alone  ! 

My  Beautiful,  they  left  thee  in  thy  peril  and  thy 

pain; 
The  night  that  hath  no  morrow  was  brooding  on 

the  main  : 

But  lo  !  a  light  is  breaking  of  hope  for  thee  again  ; 
'T  is  Perseus'  sword  a-flaming,  thy  dawn  of  day 

proclaiming 

Across  the  western  main. 
O  Ireland  !  O  my  country  !  he  comes  to  break  thy 

chain  ! 


PARTANT   POUR   LA   SYRIE. 

R  Syrian  fields  preparing, 
Dunois  the  young  and  bold, 
While  trumpet-calls  were  blaring 
And  drums  impatient  rolled, 

Two  boons  the  best  and  rarest 
At  Mary's  shrine  implored  : 
"  To  love  the  maiden  fairest, 
To  bear  the  bravest  sword  ! " 

True  faith  outvalues  daring ; 

Dunois  was  sword  and  shield, 

His  liege's  banner  bearing 

On  many  a  bloody  field. 

Still  faithful,  fearless,  prayed  he, 
In  camp  or  march  or  fight : 
"  Be  mine  the  fairest  lady, 
Be  hers  the  bravest  knight !  " 

"  And  now  we  are  victorious, 
Dunois,"  declared  his  lord  ; 
"  By  thee  my  name  is  glorious, 
And  this  be  thy  reward  : 


56 


SONGS. 


My  daughter  Isabella 
Straightway  her  love  shall  plight ; 
The  fairest  damozella 
To  match  the  bravest  knight !  " 

At  Mary's  altar  kneeling 
They  pledged  their  vows  of  love, 
While  wedding-bells  were  pealing 
A  blessing  from  above. 

"  Be  love  and  fame  their  dower  !  " 
All  cried  out  in  delight ; 
"  For  she  is  beauty's  flower, 
And  he  the  bravest  knight !  " 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  PEACE. 

SANTIAGO    DE   CUBA,    NOV.    7,    1873. 

let  it  rest !     And  give  us  peace. 

'T  is  but  another  blot 
On  Freedom's  fustian  flag,  and  gold 
Will  gild  the  unclean  spot. 

Yes,  fold  the  hands,  and  bear  the  wrong 

As  Christians  over-meek, 
And  wipe  away  the  bloody  stain, 

And  turn  the  other  cheek. 

What  boots  the  loss  of  freemen's  blood 

Beside  imperilled  gold  ? 
Is  honor  more  than  merchandise  ? 

And  cannot  pride  be  sold  ? 

Let  Cuba  groan,  let  patriots  fall ; 

Americans  may  die ; 
Our  flag  may  droop  in  foul  disgrace, 

But  "  Peace  !  "  be  still  our  cry. 


58  SONGS. 


Ay,  give  us  peace  !     And  give  us  truth 

To  nature,  to  resign 
The  counterfeit  which  Freedom  wears 

Upon  her  banner  fine. 

Remove  the  Stars,  —  they  light  our  shame  ; 

But  keep  the  Stripes  of  gore 
And  craven  White,  to  tell  the  wrong 

A  prudent  nation  bore. 


THE   SKELETON   AT  THE   FEAST. 

IN   MEMORIAM  G.  F.  R.,  DEC.  30,   1885. 

E  summoned  not  the  Silent  Guest, 
And  no  man  spake  his  name  : 
By  lips  unseen  our  Cup  was  pressed, 
And  'mid  the  merry  song  and  jest, 
The  Uninvited  came. 

Wise  were  they  in  the  days  of  old, 

Who  gave  the  Stranger  place  ; 
And  when  the  joyous  catch  was  trolled, 
And  toasts  were  quaffed  and  tales  were  told, 

They  looked  him  in  the  face. 

God  save  us  from  the  skeleton 

Who  sitteth  at  the  feast ! 
God  rest  the  manly  spirit  gone, 
Who  sat  beside  the  Silent  One, 

And  dreaded  him  the  least ! 


SATIRES. 


SATIRES. 


THE   V-A-S-E. 


ROM  the  madding  crowd  they  stand  apart, 
The  maidens  four  and  the  Work  of  Art ; 


And  none  might  tell  from  sight  alone 
In  which  had  Culture  ripest  grown,  — 

The  Gotham  Million  fair  to  see, 
The  Philadelphia  Pedigree, 

The  Boston  Mind  of  azure  hue, 

Or  the  soulful  Soul  from  Kalamazoo,  — 

For  all  loved  Art  in  a  seemly  way, 
With  an  earnest  soul  and  a  capital  A. 

Long  they  worshipped  ;  but  no  one  broke 
The  sacred  stillness,  until  up  spoke 


64  SA  TIRES. 


The  Western  one  from  the  nameless  place, 
Who  blushing  said  :  "  What  a  lovely  vace  !  " 

Over  three  faces  a  sad  smile  flew, 
And  they  edged  away  from  Kalamazoo. 

But  Gotham's  haughty  soul  was  stirred 
To  crush  the  stranger  with  one  small  word. 

Deftly  hiding  reproof  in  praise, 

She  cries  :  "  'T  is,  indeed,  a  lovely  vaze  !  " 

But  brief  her  unworthy  triumph  when 
The  lofty  one  from  the  home  of  Penn, 

With  the  consciousness  of  two  grandpapas, 
Exclaims  :  "  It  is  quite  a  lovely  vahs  !  " 

And  glances  round  with  an  anxious  thrill, 
Awaiting  the  word  of  Beacon  Hill. 

But  the  Boston  maid  smiles  courteouslee 
And  gently  murmurs  :  "  Oh,  pardon  me  ! 

"  I  did  not  catch  your  remark,  because 

I  was  so  entranced  with  that  charming  vaws  !  " 

Dies  erit  prczgelida 
Sinistra  quum  Bostonia. 


A  SAILOR'S  YARN. 


HIS  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me 

By  a  battered  and  shattered  son  of  the  sea, 
To  me  and  my  messmate,  Silas  Green, 
When  I  was  a  guileless  young  marine. 


'T  was  the  good  ship  Gyascutus, 

All  in  the  China  seas, 
With  the  wind  a-lee  and  the  capstan  free 

To  catch  the  summer  breeze. 


'T  was  Captain  Porgie  on  the  deck, 
To  his  mate  in  the  mizzen  hatch, 

While  the  boatswain  bold,  in  the  forward  hold, 
Was  winding  his  larboard  watch. 


"Oh,  how  does  our  good  ship  head  to-night? 

How  heads  our  gallant  craft?  " 
"  Oh,  she  heads  to  the  E.  S.  W.  by  N., 

And  the  binnacle  lies  abaft !  " 

5 


66  SA  TIRES. 


"  Oh,  what  does  the  quadrant  indicate, 
And  how  does  the  sextant  stand?" 

"  Oh,  the  sextant 's  down  to  the  freezing-point, 
And  the  quadrant  's  lost  a  hand  !  " 

"  Oh,  and  if  the  quadrant  has  lost  a  hand 

And  the  sextant  falls  so  low, 
It 's  our  bodies  and  bones  to  Davy  Jones 

This  night  are  bound  to  go  ! 

"  Oh,  fly  aloft  to  the  garboard  strake  ! 

And  reef  the  spanker  boom  ; 
Bend  a  studding-sail  on  the  martingale, 

To  give  her  weather  room. 

"  O  boatswain,  down  in  the  for'ard  hold, 

What  water  do  you  find?" 
"  Four  foot  and  a  half  by  the  royal  gaff 

And  rather  more  behind  !  " 

"  O  sailors,  collar  your  marline  spikes 

And  each  belaying-pin ; 
Come  stir  your  stumps  and  spike  the  pumps, 

Or  more  will  be  coming  in  !  " 

They  stirred  their  stumps,  they  spiked  the  pumps, 

They  spliced  the  mizzen  brace  ; 
Aloft  and  alow  they  worked,  but  oh  ! 

The  water  gained  apace. 


A   SAILORS    YARN.  67 

They  bored  a  hole  above  the  keel 

To  let  the  water  out ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  to  their  dismay, 

The  water  in  did  spout. 

Then  up  spoke  the  Cook  of  our  gallant  ship, 

And  he  was  a  lubber  brave  : 
"  I  have  several  wives  in  various  ports, 

And  my  life  I  'd  orter  save." 

Then  up  spoke  the  Captain  of  Marines, 

Who  dearly  loved  his  prog  : 
"  It 's  awful  to  die,  and  it 's  worse  to  be  dry, 

And  I  move  we  pipes  to  grog." 

Oh,  then  't  was  the  noble  second  mate 

What  filled  them  all  with  awe ; 
The  second  mate,  as  bad  men  hate, 

And  cruel  skippers  jaw. 

He  took  the  anchor  on  his  back 

And  leaped  into  the  main  ; 
Through  foam  and  spray  he  clove  his  way, 

And  sunk  and  rose  again  ! 

Through  foam  and  spray,  a  league  away 

The  anchor  stout  he  bore  ; 
Till,  safe  at  last,  he  made  it  fast 

And  warped  the  ship  ashore  ! 


68  SA  TIRES. 


T  ain't  much  of  a  job  to  talk  about, 
But  a  ticklish  thing  to  see, 

And  suth'in  to  do,  if  I  say  it,  too, 
For  that  second  mate  was  me  ! 


Such  was  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me 
By  that  modest  and  truthful  son  of  the  sea ; 
And  I  envy  the  life  of  a  second  mate, 
Though  captains  curse  him  and  sailors  hate, 
For  he  ain't  like  some  of  the  swabs  I  've  seen, 
As  would  go  and  lie  to  a  poor  marine. 


A  CONCORD   LOVE-SONG. 

HALL  we  meet  again,  love, 
In  the  distant  When,  love, 
When  the  Now  is  Then,  love, 
And  the  Present  Past  ? 
Shall  the  mystic  Yonder, 
On  which  I  ponder, 
I  sadly  wonder, 
Withtheebe  cast? 

Ah,  the  joyless  fleeting 
Of  our  primal  meeting, 
And  the  fateful  greeting 

Of  the  How  and  Why  ! 
Ah,  the  Thingness  flying 
From  the  Hereness,  sighing 
For  a  love  undying 

That  fain  would  die  ! 

Ah,  the  Ifness  sadd'ning, 
The  Whichness  madd'ning, 
And  the  But  ungladd'ning, 
That  lie  behind  ! 


70  SA  TIRES. 


When  the  signless  token 
Of  love  is  broken 
In  the  speech  unspoken 
Of  mind  to  mind  ! 

But  the  mind  perceiveth 
When  the  spirit  grieveth, 
And  the  heart  relieveth 

Itself  of  woe ; 
And  the  doubt-mists  lifted 
From  the  eyes  love-gifted 
Are  rent  and  rifted 

In  the  warmer  glow. 

In  the  inner  Me,  love, 
As  I  turn  to  thee,  love, 
I  seem  to  see,  love, 

No  Ego  there. 
But  the  Meness  dead,  love, 
The  Theeness  fled,  love, 
And  born  instead,  love, 

An  Usness  rare  ! 


FROZEN   OUT. 

A  TALE    OF  THE    NICARAGUA   CANAL,  A.D.  19 — . 

>ME  hither,  little  Britisher,  and  listen  while 

I  tell 
About  the  great  climatic  change  that  long 

ago  befell. 
Take   off  your  little   Arctic  shoes,  hang  up   your 

reindeer  hood, 

And  you  shall  have  some  blubber  pie  if  you  be  nice 
and  good. 

T  was  in  the  old  and  wicked  days  your  Uncle  Sam 

began 

To  dig  his  great  canal  beside  the  river  San  Juan ; 
And  when  they  saw  him  work  so  hard  and  get  along 

so  slow, 
The  foreign  nations  laughed  ha  !  ha  !  and  eke  they 

laughed  ho  !  ho  ! 

But  when  the  work  was  done  at  last,  and  he  began 

to  build 
His  mighty  forts  on  either  side,  with  anger  they 

were  filled. 

They  met  in  hasty  conference  one  morning  at  Berlin, 
The  very  day  that  he  had  fixed  to  let  the  water  in. 


72  SA  TIRES. 


And  as  the  water  and  the  talk  did  simultaneous  flow, 
The  Caribbean  Sea  ran  dry  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 
The  great  Gulf  Stream  which  used  to  wash  and 

warm  all  Europe  free 
Was   siphoned    through  the   new   canal   into   the 

Southern  Sea. 

Next  day  a  little  Cablegram  covered  with  ice  and 

snow 
Came  staggering  over  to  Sandy  Hook,  and  this  its 

tale  of  woe  : 

A  wave  of  more  than  Arctic  cold  had  suddenly  ariz, 
In  spite  of  grammar  or  precedent,  and  the  whole  of 

Europe  friz. 

And  every  port  was  blocked  with  ice,  and  every 

town  with  snow ; 
You  could  travel  on  skates  from  Liverpool  to  the 

Bay  of  Biscay  O. 
The  savans  all  were  at  loggerheads  the  reason  to 

unfold ; 
For  some  maintained  it  was  lack  of  heat,  others 

excess  of  cold. 

"  Whatever  the  cause,"  said  the  Cablegram,  kicking 

its  frozen  heels, 
"  Europe  for  sympathy  and  help  to  its  Uncle  Sam 

appeals." 
"The  reason  is  plain,"  said  Uncle  Sam,  and  he 

winked  his  aged  eye ; 
"  You  've  neglected  to  pay  your  water  rates,  and 

I  Ve  cut  off  the  supply." 


FROZEN  OUT,  73 


He  laughed  ha  !  ha  !  and  he  laughed  ho  !  ho  !  did 

wily  Uncle  Sam, 
As  he  sent  in  his  little  bill  of  costs  by  the  little 

Cablegram. 
The  air  of  Europe  was  black  that  day  with  blasphemy 

and  sin, 
But  the  nations  did  as  we  all  must  do  when  the 

plumber's  bill  comes  in. 

$100,000,000,000    cash!    and,    oh!    they   roundly 

swore 
When  they  found  the  Gulf  Stream  did  n't  flow  as  it 

useter  did  before. 
It  was  a  pious  dodge,  my  child,  to  put  down  war 

and  slaughter, 
For  it  made  the  nations  keep  the  peace  to  keep  'em 

out  of  hot  water. 


ENIGMA. 

AM  hot  j  I  am  cold ; 

I  am  craven  and  bold ; 

I  am  youthful  and  old, 
And  middle-aged  too ; 
I  am  living  and  dead, 
I  Ve  no  body  or  head, 
And  my  color  is  red, 
Orange,  yellow,  green,  blue. 

I  Ve  no  trunk  and  no  limb, 
Yet  can  fly,  walk,  or  swim, 
Or  across  the  seas  skim 
Like  a  free  ocean  bird. 
Though  a  bodiless  sprite, 
Yet  by  day  or  by  night 
I  'm  in  every  one's  sight 
And  by  every  one  heard. 

I  am  ten  cubits  high 
But  can  crawl  through  the  eye 
Of  a  needle,  though  nigh 
Twenty  thousand  miles  broad. 


ENIGMA. 


75 


I  'm  an  unheard-of  stone 
That  is  very  well  known, 
And  my  substance  alone 
By  an  iceberg  is  thawed. 

I  shine  in  the  sky, 
And  in  caverns  lie, 
And  no  mortal  man's  eye 
Hath  my  form  e'er  seen. 
I  lived  at  earth's  dawn 
And  expire  each  morn, 
Though  but  yesterday  born 
And  aged  nineteen. 


IF. 

H,  if  the  world  were  mine,  Love, 
I  'd  give  the  world  for  thee  ! 
Alas  !  there  is  no  sign,  Love, 
Of  that  contingency. 


Were  I  a  king — which  isn't 

To  be  considered  now — 
A  diadem  had  glistened 

Upon  thy  lovely  brow. 

Had  Fame  with  laurels  crowned  me,  - 

She  has  n't  up  to  date,  — 
Nor  time  nor  change  had  found  me 

To  love  and  thee  ingrate. 

If  Death  threw  down  his  gage,  Love, 
Though  life  is  dear  to  me, 

I  'd  die,  e'en  of  old  age,  Love, 
To  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

But  being  poor  we  part,  Dear, 
And  love,  sweet  love,  must  die  — 

Thou  wilt  not  break  thy  heart,  Dear ; 
No  more  I  think,  shall  I. 


A  TITLE   CLEAR. 

AYBE  it  was  the  Sunday  fare ; 

Maybe  the  Sunday  sermon  ; 
Perhaps  't  was  but  a  plain  nightmare 
I  never  can  determine. 


I  dreamed  I  was  an  errant  shade, 
With  other  shadows  hieing 

Along  a  road  whose  downward  grade 
Was  simply  terrifying. 

Before  them  all,  with  haughty  head, 
One  held  the  chief  position, 

Whose  lofty  mien  and  stately  tread 
Proclaimed  his  high  condition. 

While  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  rest 

Sat  trouble  and  dejection, 
His  gold-rimmed  orbs  alone  expressed 

Approving  introspection. 

We  reached  a  river  and  embarked 

Upon  a  galley  gloomy ; 
The  seat  the  stranger  took,  I  marked, 

Was  elegant  arid  roomy. 


78  SA  TIRES. 


When  Charon  came  to  punch  his  fare, 

The  awe-inspiring  spectre 
Transfixed  him  with  a  stony  stare, 

And  seemed  to  say,  "  Director." 

We  reached  at  length  the  heavenly  gate 
The  press  had  free  admissions  — 

The  common  herd  was  forced  to  wait 
And  loaded  with  conditions. 

The  stranger  handed  in  his  card, 
While  round  the  door  we  hovered, 

And  to  the  high  celestial  guard 
His  shapely  head  uncovered. 

I  saw  St.  Peter  smile  and  bow, 

Urbane  and  deferential ; 
The  stranger's  greeting  was  somehow 

A  shade  more  consequential. 

"  Angel !  "  the  saintly  tyler  cried, 
A  page  straightway  appearing. 

(I  don't  remember  that  I  tried 
To  wholly  keep  from  hearing.) 

I  caught  the  words  "  Orchestra  chair  — 
Be  sure  you  get  the  right  one  — 

See  the  harp-tuner ;  and  take  care 
The  halo  is  a  bright  one. 


A    TITLE   CLEAR. 


79 


"  Look  lively,  too,"  St.  Peter  said, 

"The  gentleman  is  waiting." 
"  Please  register  "  —  he  bent  his  head, 

The  great  book  indicating. 

The  stranger  wrote.     I  read  the  scrawl 
The  sacred  page  engrossed  on ; 

The  name  was  nought,  the  place  was  all,  — 
"J.  Winthrop  Wiggins,  Boston." 


THE   PREADAMITE. 

JO,  for  a  rhyme  of  the  good  old  time, 

Ere  Adam  or  Eve  was  born, 
When   the   saurian   slept   in   the   sluggish 

slime 

With  the  unique  unicorn. 
When  the  mermaid  smiled  on  the  mammoth  mild, 

And  the  dodo  sang  her  lay, 
And  the  behemoth  breasted  the  billows  wild 
With  the  plesiosaurus  gay. 

Oh,  a  happy  wight  was  the  Preadamite  ! 

He  basked  in  the  griffin's  smile, 
Or  followed  the  dragon's  sportive  flight, 

Or  wept  with  the  crocodile. 
An  omelet  made  of  the  roc's  egg  stayed 

His  appetite  so  rare, 
While  whale  on  toast  and  walrus  roast 

Were  his  steady  bill  of  fare. 

No  hotel  bills  or  doctor's  pills 

Impaired  his  appetite ; 
He  laughed  at  gout  with  his  stomach  stout, 

And  kept  his  molars  bright. 


THE  PREADAMITE. 


8l 


Ho,  a  tear  and  a  sigh  for  the  days  gone  by, 
And  a  dirge  for  the  doughty  dead  ! 

Let  the  sea-serpent  shuffle  his  coil  and  die, 
For  the  good  old  days  are  sped. 


TO  T.   D. 


E  're  growing  old,  my  comrade  true  ; 

We  Ve  fallen  on  autumn  weather ; 
The  skies  that  smiled  so  long  on  us, 
The  sun  that  shone  so  strong  on  us, 
Are  darkening  together. 

We  loved  the  sun  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  idleness  and  folly ; 
Life  never  was  too  bright  for  us, 
Sun  never  shone  too  light  for  us, 

We  knew  not  melancholy. 

Thou  earnest  to  me  so  virgin  white, 

No  lips  but  mine  e'er  pressing ; 
I  loved  thee  then  as  dear  as  now, 
I  found  thee  aye  sincere  as  now, 
As  warm,  as  sweet  caressing. 

But  ah  !  the  fire  was  in  thy  breast 

Is  waxing  colder,  dimmer  ; 
The  light  that  once  could  brighten  me 
Now  pales  enough  to  frighten  me 

With  its  expiring  glimmer. 


TO    T.   D.  83 

Thou  wert  as  dear  as  nearer  friends, 

And  truer  to  -the  end ; 
When  love  hath  smiled  and  lied  to  me, 
And  fortune  falsely  cried  to  me, 

Thou  wert  mine  only  friend. 

Thou  art  not  of  the  race  of  man, 

But  other,  nobler  clay. 
I  bought  thee  for  two  copper  sous, 
And  having  served  my  proper  use, 

I  throw  thee  thus  away. 


THE   SPECTRE   MULETEER. 

(AFTER  HOOD.) 


'HN    MAULER  was  a  gondolier 
On  Erie's  verdant  shore  ; 

His  walk  was  humble,  but  his  gait 
Was  something  to  adore. 


The  locksman's  lovely  daughter  had 

For  him  a  passion  strong, 
And  though  she  was  quite  short  and  small 

He  vowed  he  loved  her  long. 

Love's  course  is  often  sweet  and  mild, 

And  like  the  limpid  wave 
Of  calm  canals,  whose  rippling  tides 

Their  soft  embankments  lave. 

But  crosses  come,  as  freshets  do, 

And  cruel  sires  there  be, 
Unfeeling  guardians  whose  wards 

Are  always  under  key. 


THE  SPECTRE  MULETEER.  85 

Her  father's  haughty  castle  stood 

Beside  the  fair  Mohawk  ; 
He  did  n't  lock  her  in  the  keep, 

But  kept  her  in  the  lock. 

"  Think  not  to  wed  a  driver  low  ! 

Thou  art  too  rare  a  prize ; 
Canalers  to  canaille  may  stoop, 

But  not  to  wed-lock  rise." 

So  spake  her  parent  scornfully  ; 

The  maiden  heard  in  fear, 
And  when  he  laughed  his  horsey  laugh 

She  dropped  her  muleteer. 

"  Oh,  Sarah  Jane  !  "  her  lover  cried, 

"  My  honest  love  you  scorn, 
And  since  you  Ve  given  me  the  sack, 

I  '11  take  it  in  a  horn." 

John  Mauler's  manly  heart  grew  weak, 
For  gin  and  grief  soon  shook  it ; 

And  when  his  mule  kicked  in  his  side, 
He  sighed  and  kicked  the  bucket. 

The  lovely  maiden  pined  away, 

And  said,  with  many  a  tear, 
"  Although  he  's  gone  before,  I  '11  stay 

And  be  his  pioneer." 


86  SA  TIRES. 


The  locksman  lives  a  changed  man, 

With  sorrow  in  his  eyes ; 
For  every  night  his  hair  turns  white, 

And  every  morn  he  dyes. 

For  in  the  hour  when  Nature  sleeps 
And  bargemen  blithely  swear, 

A  grim  procession  wakens  him 
And  elevates  his  hair. 

A  ghostly  barge,  a  spectre  mule, 

A  phantom  driver  grim, 
Beside  the  haunted  lock  are  seen 

To  pass  an  hour  with  him. 

Their  purpose  is  a  paradox 
To  make  the  blood  run  cold  ; 

For  though  they  go  without  a  word 
They  're  waiting  to  be  tolled. 

And  then  the  spectre  barge  departs 

Along  the  sluggish  pool, 
Beside  a  fleshless  driver  and 

Behind  a  bloodless  mule, 

Past  Syracuse  and  Utica, 
And  Ilion's  ancient  walls, 

And  where  the  mighty  Mohawk  flows 
From  Rome  to  Little  Falls, 


THE  SPECTRE  MULETEER.  87 

Till  boat  and  mule  and  driver  fade 

Before  the  sun's  bright  face ; 
The  very  harness  vanishes, 

Nor  leaves  a  broken  trace. 

But  Richfield  convalescents  say 

That  every  morn  they  find 
Some  extra  sulphur  in  the  springs, 

And  brimstone  in  the  wind. 


"SCHOOL   KEEPS." 

|O  you  think  it  is  "  splendid  to  be  a  man 
And  done  with  the  books  and  school,"  my 

boy? 

Ah,  but  school  keeps  on  after  youth  is  gone, 
Under  a  harder  rule,  my  boy. 

Our  teacher's  name  is  Experience  ; 

His  price  of  tuition  is  high,  my  boy. 

We  can  skip  if  we  please,  but  he  always  sees, 

And  lays  it  on  till  we  cry,  my  boy. 

How  long  the  term  shall  be  for  each 

We  know  nothing  at  all  about,  my  boy ; 

The  school  is  always  open  to  teach, 

But  the  scholars  keep  dropping  out,  my  boy. 

Some  get  prizes,  and  many  blanks  ; 
The  prizes  are  mighty  few,  my  boy. 
But  the  one  most  envied  in  all  our  ranks 
Would  be  quick  to  change  with  you,  my  boy ; 

Wisdom  and  wealth  are  prizes  rare 
With  which  no  one  would  dispense,  my  boy ; 
But  the  rich  and  the  sage  would  swap  for  your  age 
All  of  their  dollars  and  sense,  my  boy. 


"SCHOOL   KEEPS."  89 

Don't  envy  the  great  who  rides  in  state 
Down  the  middle  of  life's  broad  road,  my  boy ; 
The  black  imp,  Care,  is  behind  him  there, 
And  his  steed  carries  double  load,  my  boy. 

Old  Vanderbillion,  with  fourteen  cooks 
To  see  that  his  dinners  are  right,  my  boy, 
Would  pitch  cooks  and  wine  to  the  dogs,  to  dine 
On  a  crust  with  your  appetite,  my  boy. 

The  sun  is  shining  upon  your  face  : 

Our  shadows  are  all  before,  my  boy ; 

And  they  lengthen  out  with  our  every  pace  — 

Soon  they  will  fall  no  more,  my  boy. 

Harvest  the  sunshine  in  your  heart, 
Gather  its  heat  and  light,  my  boy  : 
You  '11  want  it  all  when  the  shadows  fall, 
And  you  feel  the  chill  of  night,  my  boy. 


THE   DOLLAR   OF   OUR  FATHERS. 

[ATHER,  I  've  heard  our  member  cry 

For  the  "  good  old  dollar  "  of  days  gone  by, 
While  the  tear  bedewed  his  massive  cheek, 
And  his  faltering  voice  was  sad  and  weak. 
Oh,  what  was  that  coin  beloved  of  old  ?  — 
Was  it  heavy  and  bright  and  virgin  gold  ? 
Not  much,  my  child. 

Then,  was  it  of  silver  fair  and  bright, 
Round  as  the  silver  moon  at  night  ? 
Did  "  we  trust  in  God,  900  fine," 
And  in  Mr.  Jones  who  owned  the  mine  ? 
Was  it  milled  and  stamped  in  cunning  style, 
And  was  eighty  cents  the  size  of  its  pile  ? 
Scarcely,  my  child. 

Oh,  was  it  of  copper  smooth  and  round, 
A  hundred  bung-downs  weighing  a  pound, 
And  some  of  'em  buttons,  and  some  of  'em  brass, 
That  onto  a  blind  man  you  might  pass  ? 
Were  those  the  particular  kind  of  brads 
That  made  up  the  dollar  dear  to  our  dads  ? 
Not  quite,  my  child. 


THE  DOLLAR   OF  OUR  FATHERS.        91 

Then,  was  it  the  sweet  shinplaster  note, 
Upon  which  the  wild-cat  bankers  dote  ? 
Or  was  it  a  bill  on  a  bank  that  bust 
Whenever  you  wanted  to  draw  your  dust  ? 
And  had  it  a  discount  of  one  per  cent, 
Like  a  coupon,  every  mile  it  went  ? 
Well,  no,  my  child. 

The  dollar  your  member  doats  upon 

Is  a  dollar  you  never  will  see,  my  son  : 

The  dollar  which  pays  all  sorts  of  debts, 

And  leaves  a  stake  for  election  bets ; 

The  dollar  you  pass  when  you  hire  a  hack, 

And  a  dollar  and  a  half  in  change  comes  back ; 

The  dollar  you  flip  and  it  comes  down  head 

Or  tail,  whichever  you  may  have  said ; 

The  dollar  that  buys  whatever  you  will, 

And  is  earned  by  steady  sitting  still,  — 

The  dollar  pure  and  unsoiled  by  sweat 

Is  the  dollar  they  want  "  restored,"  you  bet ! 

And  if  you  would  know  whereof 't  is  made, 

Go  ask  of  the  india-rubber  trade  ; 

But  if  you  inquire  why  it  is  styled 

"The  Fathers'  Dollar," 

You  've  got  me,  child. 


WHAT  THE   TELEGRAPH   SAID. 

AYLY  the  wind  sings  through  the  wires, 

Touching  the  chords  with  fingers  light ; 
Singing  of  love  and  its  sweet  desires 
To  the  maid  who  listens  with  fond  delight. 

Sadly  it  sways  the  trembling  lines, 

Waking  a  plaintive  song  of  woe  ; 
Breaking  a  heart  that  wearily  pines 

For  the  music  of  hope  that  was  long  ago. 

Singing  to  each  a  well-known  strain 

Caught  from  the  keynote  in  every  mind : 

Oh,  sings  it  for  me  of  peace  or  pain, 

This  harp  that  sways  in  the  winter  wind  ? 

What  message  carries  the  lightning  slave 
Over  the  mountains,  under  the  sea? 

And  this  the  answer  the  ticker  gave  : 
"  Wheat  is  quiet  at  83  ! " 


THE   FO'KS'LE. 

A   REVELATION. 

N  the  dark  and  grimy  galley 

Of  a  vessel  from  afar, 
Sits  a  pitiful  impostor, 

Who  is  called  a  "Jolly  Tar." 

In  his  dress  and  speech  and  manner 

He  betrays  a  painful  lack 
Of  the  stock  characteristics 

Of  the  stage  and  novel  "Jack." 

For  he  does  n't  speak  the  jargon 

So  familiar  on  the  stage, 
And  forbears  to  hitch  his  trousers, 

With  a  reverence  for  age. 

His  jacket  is  n't  tarry, 

But  of  dubious  glossy  hue, 

And  his  pantaloons  are  loudish, 
Not  an  unpretending  blue. 

No  poetic,  trim  tarpaulin, 

But  a  cap  of  greasy  prose, 
Hides  his  close-cut  locks,  and  covers 

Both  his  eyes  and  half  his  nose. 


94  SA  TIRES. 


And  when  I  hail  him  "  Shipmet !  " 
He  does  not  reply  "  Belay," 

But  he  growls  a  salutation 
In  his  surly,  salty  way. 

He  spins  no  naval  yarn, 

And  he  sings  no  naval  song, 

And  his  language  is  sententious.. 
And  sulphurous  and  strong. 

He  grumbles  at  the  hardships 

Of  a  life  upon  the  blue  ; 
He  reviles  the  mate  and  captain 

And  the  boatswain  and  the  crew. 


He  has  curses  for  the  owners 

Of  his  thrice-accursed  ships, 
With  profanest  recollections 

Of  preceding  cursed  trips. 

He  blasphemes  about  the  "lobscouse" 
And  the  "  plum  duff"  and  the  "  prog  ;  " 

And  he  mutters  imprecations 
On  the  'baccy  and  the  grog. 

He  is  low  and  coarse  and  dirty, 

And  is  very,  very  far 
From  my  picturesque  ideal 

Of  the  jolly  Jack-a-Tar. 


777^  FVK&LE.  95 


And  I  think  of  Susan's  William, 
But  I  know  they  called  him  Bill, 

And  of  Kidd  and  Vanderdecken, 
Who  is  navigating  still. 

And  I  Ve  doubts  of  solemn  Bunsby, 
And  of  Cuttle  sagely  mild ; 

And  I  say,  "  A  tar  is  tarnished, 
As  a  pitcher  is  denied." 


"DON'T." 

UR  eyes  were  made  for  laughter, 
Sorrow  befits  them  not ; 

Would  you  be  blithe  hereafter, 
Avoid  the  lover's  lot. 


The  rose  and  lily  blended 
Possess  your  cheeks  so  fair ; 

Care  never  was  intended 
To  leave  his  furrows  there. 

Your  heart  was  not  created 

To  fret  itself  away, 
Being  unduly  mated 

To  common  human  clay. 

But  hearts  were  made  for  loving 
Confound  philosophy  ! 

Forget  what  I  Ve  been  proving, 
Sweet  Phyllis,  and  love  me. 


THE  TWIN   RELIC. 

!HE  moral  sense  of  Bitter  Creek  desires  to  be 

heard 

About   the   sad   unpleasantness  which  re 
cently  occurred, 
Particularly  as  the  world   has  been  surprised   and 

grieved 
By  false  reports  through  which   it  was  maliciously 

deceived. 
If  any  Tenderfoot  is  moved  to  treat  the  case  with 

levity, 

He  will  not  find  the  exercise  conducive  to  lon 
gevity. 

Our  marriage  laws  have  always  been  the  Creek's 

especial  pride, 
Freedom  in  this  as  other  things  being  our  trusty 

guide. 
The  hideous  plague  Polygamy  had   never  stained 

our  town ; 
The  vaccine  virtue  of  divorce  sufficed  to  keep  it 

down, 
Though  some  confusion  thence  ensued,  producing 

a  variety 
Of     complications     conjugal     among     our     best 

society. 

7 


SA  TIRES. 


The  ribald  sneer  and  thoughtless  scoff,  I  grieve  to 

say,  were  heard 
When   Deacon    Jones's    seventh    spouse    became 

Judge  Potter's  third. 
But  to  my  mind   no  fairer  sight   since  Eden  has 

been  seen 
Than  when  the  groom's  three  former  wives  were 

bridesmaids  to  Miss  Green. 
T  was  all  too  sweet  to  last.     The  Creek,  in  virtue 

wrapped  and  amity, 
Was  drawing  to  a  bobtail  flush  against  a  straight 

calamity. 

A  citizen  from  down  the  Gulch  one  day  the  tidings 
bore, 

That  Barbarism's  tents  were  pitched  outside  our 
very  door,  — 

That  on  the  ground  which  Christian  sharps  pro 
spected  long  in  vain, 

And  even  Chinamen  had  scraped  in  bootless  quest 
of  gain, 

A  Mormon  horde,  with  nigger-luck  in  all  its  blank 
exuberance, 

Had  struck  it  rich  and  got  on  us  the  undisguised 
protuberance. 

It  was  too  much,  we  said,  and  swore  this  scandal 

must  not  be ; 
Those  diggings  must  and   should   be  jumped   for 

pure  humanity. 


THE    TWIN  RELIC.  99 


To  think  and  act,  to  draw  and  shoot,  with  Bitter 
Creek  were  one  : 

We  met  in  Pettingill's  saloon,  and  each  man  brought 
his  gun ; 

Resolves  to  the  above  effect  were  read  and  passed 
unanimous, 

After  we'd  taken  out  and  lynched  a  little  pusil 
lanimous 

And  morbid  cuss  who  voted   "No,"  thinking  by 

such  a  plan 
That  he  could  trample  on  free  speech,  the  holiest 

right  of  man. 
But    ah !   alas   for   Bitter  Creek,    alas   for    earthly 

pride, 
When  moral  suasion  doesn't  work  and  shot-guns 

are  defied  ! 
Our  missionary  labors  failed  with  those  degraded 

foreigners, 
Who  proved  remarkably  well  fixed  to  lay  out  work 

for  coroners. 

Envenomed  calumny  has  raised  the  cry  that  Bitter 

Creek 
Has  shook  its  principles  and   taken  water,  so  to 

speak, 
Because  on  sober  second   thought  it  was  resolved 

to  change 
Our  marriage  laws,  conforming  to  conditions  new 

and  strange. 


100  SATIRES. 


Preponderating  widowhood  came  forward  unob 
trusively 

But  firmly,  and  arranged  affairs  to  suit  itself  ex 
clusively. 

A  constitutional  convention  met,  and  thus  de 
clared  : 

"That  Mormonism's  standard  here  should  never 
be  upreared ; 

That  marriage  sanctity  remains,  as  it  has  been, 
the  pride 

Of  Bitter  Creek;  and  that  our  laws  be  hereby 
modified 

As  follows."  This  amendment  then  was  passed 
without  a  negative,  — 

"That  simultaneous  wedlock  shall  henceforth  re 
place  consecutive." 


MY   HATED    RIVAL:  ' 

HE  takes  his  head  upon  her  breast ; 

She  kisses  and  caresses  him ; 

She  's  all  unhappy  and  oppressed, 

If  anything  distresses  him.      .. 


She  sings  his  praises  to  his  face, 
Until  he  swells  with  vanity, 

But  silent  takes  it,  with  the  grace 
Of  insolent  inanity. 

He  is  n't  witty,  wise,  nor  fair ; 

His  voice  is  not  melodious ; 
His  manners  are  beyond  compare  — 

Comparisons  are  odious. 

And  yet  I  'd  take  his  visage  grim 
And  clumsy  form,  and  pay  for  it 

Right  royally,  to  be  like  him,  — 
Thrice  happy  Dog  !  —  her  favorite. 


AD   LYDIAM. 

HERE'ER  I  wander  near  or  far 

I  see  that  winsome  face  ; 

By  land  or  sea,  by  ship  or  car, 

It  haunts  me  every  place. 


And  though  I  fly  to  solitude 

And  be  an  anchoret, 
The  lovely  vision  will  intrude 

And  smile  upon  me  yet. 

Like  good  Saint  Anthony,  in  shame 

I  close  my  fevered  eyes ; 
Her  burning  looks  my  heart  inflame, 

And  bid  wild  passion  rise. 

Yet  never  in  my  life  have  I 

Wrought  her  or  weal  or  woe,  — 

Then,  lovely  Lydia  P-nkh-m,  why 
Dost  thou  pursue  me  so  ? 


ON   RE-READING  T^L^MAQUE. 

"  Calypso  could  not  console  herself" 

PLACE  thee  back  upon  thy  shelf. 

O  Fe"  nelon,  how  scant  thy  knowledge, 
Who  seemed  as  Solomon  himself 
To  me,  a  callow  youth  at  college  ! 


No  need  to  say  thou  wert  a  priest ; 

No  need  to  own  that  I  am  human ; 
Mine  this  advantage  is  —  at  least 

I  Ve  learned  the  alphabet  of  Woman. 

And  yet  but  half  the  truth  is  told  : 
I  do  thee  wrong,  sagacious  Mentor,  - 

Calypso  could  not  be  consoled 
Until  another  man  was  sent  her  ! 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


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